


I see the soul that is inside

by mjonesing (klassmartin)



Series: Music sounds better with you [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, His usual state of disaster, MJ is a ballerina, Peter is... Peter, and yet here we are, the sk8er boi AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/mjonesing
Summary: “I’m so sorry,” he says again, eyes flickering over her form, “I was rushing and you came out of nowhere and -”“So it’s my fault?”“No! No. Not at all. It’s completely my bad.”“Of course it’s ‘your bad’. Who speeds through the streets of New York on a skateboard?! This isn’t the noughties.”---Or: He was a boy, she was a girl. Can I make it anymore obvious (what this is about)?
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: Music sounds better with you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921150
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50
Collections: The Spideychelle Shuffle





	I see the soul that is inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spidermanhomecomeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/gifts).



> For the Spotify Shuffle Game; Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne (Part 1, above the cut) and 7 Days by Craig David (Part 2 - below the cut)

The sun is still lingering when she leaves the studio, surely proof of a higher being if she could ever believe in miracles. Oranges and pinks stain the last of the blue sky, splashes of watercolour behind the skyline, unnoticed by the bustling crowd that head to the subway for the comfort of home. Michelle pauses on the stoop to take it in, raising her phone to snap a photo for later reference, thoughts filled by the potential to open her latest set of pastels.

Her bag bumps against her ribs as she skips down the last few steps, the muffled sound of her keys colliding with the box of her pointe shoes making her wince. Normally, she’d have wrapped them carefully, trying to preserve them for long enough to scrape the money together for the next pair; but today she’s got twenty minutes to make a half hour journey to her friend’s art show. Hopefully she can muscle her way through the crowd to find a seat so she can swipe on some lipstick, try to brighten up her rushed wardrobe of a simple black cocktail dress. It’s wrinkled from its day thrown in her bag as she rehearsed, but it hadn’t looked too disagreeable in the harsh fluorescent lights of the studio bathroom. 

Gwen definitely won’t mind; she’ll be too surprised by Michelle turning up for once.

She has one foot on the sidewalk when something - some _one_ \- crashes right into her, sending them both sprawling.

“What the hell?!” she cries as pain blossoms in her elbow.

“Shit, _shit_ , fuck! I’m so sorry!” The person scrambles for a foothold, momentarily squashing her further before he manages to straighten up. “Are you okay?”

Michelle glares up at the guy who is trying to pick her up from the ground, eyes narrowing further until he withdraws his hands from her wrists with flushed cheeks. She rights herself quickly and curls her arm to take in the fresh graze maring her skin, blood beading on the surface.

She sighs. Her director won’t be happy about this.

She looks up to see her accidental attacker holding out her bag and a crumpled but otherwise clean tissue, his skateboard already tucked underneath his arm. He’s gritting his teeth in a grimace but otherwise he has a very kind face, a face she quickly finds herself forgiving despite the trouble she’ll be in tomorrow. He’s a touch shorter than her with nice brown eyes, a backwards baseball cap squashing down his hair. His jeans are entirely too baggy, seemingly defying gravity to remain on his hips, and his laces drag against the ground as he kicks his toe in a move full of anxiety, loitering in front of her as she fights to keep her expression stern.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she snaps as she snatches back her bag, rooting around inside for the antiseptic wipes she keeps for her feet when rehearsals are particularly brutal.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, eyes flickering over her form, “I was rushing and you came out of nowhere and -”

“So it’s my fault?”

“No! _No_. Not at all. It’s completely my bad.”

“Of course it’s ‘your bad’. Who speeds through the streets of New York on a skateboard?! This isn’t the noughties.” Michelle finishes up cleaning her wound and begins to brush down the fabric of her skirt, wrinkling her nose in displeasure as some of the grim sticks to the fabric.

She turns her back to leave, throwing one last glare over her shoulder as she does, except he calls out, “Hey! Excuse me, just - Are you a dancer here?”

Michelle glances back, torn between the steadily growing time pressure and the sincerity in his gaze. “Yes,” she finally admits.

“Wow.”

He’s looking up at the looming exterior with this soft smile that lures her in, stepping back a few paces like her body has decided to hear him out. It’s reverential, the way he stares at the weather-worn brick and the emblem carved into stone above the doors.

Why is a boy like him so interested in a place like this?

“Sorry, again, I just - My Uncle was a fan of the ballet, would take my Aunt every year for her birthday. Secretly, I think she hated it as much as me, but… He could talk about those shows for hours.”

Michelle feels herself softening at his confession, remembering her own wonder of the shows her father shrimped and saved to take her to whenever he could. She settles at his side to look up and try to see what he’s so focused on. She can’t, but then again, she thinks he isn’t admiring the architecture; what he sees exists only in his memory.

“We put on a lot of shows. Maybe you could bring your Aunt along one day.”

His smile is cute, lighting up the shadows cutting across his face. “If I do, will I see you on the stage?”

“I…” Michelle fiddles with her hair and taps her fingers against her thigh. “I’m just in the ensemble. You probably wouldn’t even notice me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

A bubble of laughter escapes her before she can control herself, turning more to face him fully. “Are you really flirting with me after causing me bodily harm?”

“I am if it’s working.” His eyes cut across to her, humour sparkling in their depths. “Was that too much?”

“A bit.” She shrugs one shoulder, wincing slightly as it tugs at her broken skin. “It’s okay, though. People tend to get excited once they find out I’m a dancer; like it’s something incredible, otherworldly. I love it, but it’s a job. Just like everyone else’s.”

“I don’t have a job.” The red stain on his cheeks returns with a vengeance. “Uh… I mean, I’m still a student. And I do have a job, it’s just complicated. Not exactly… It’s nothing like yours, trust me.”

“You’re weird,” she observes with a quirked eyebrow. “I don’t enjoy playing into stereotypes but… You’re not what I expected.”

He grins and she adds, “Was that a bit much?”

“A bit.” But his smile only grows, turning his face from cute to handsome. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Michelle,” she says as she accepts his handshake, “But you can call me MJ.”

“That sounds like I’ve been bestowed with some kind of honour. Like, maybe… I’ll see you again?”

“Let’s not be hasty.” But she’s smiling right back, her hand still lingering in his.

“Who knows, you might even like me enough to hook me up with some tickets, see if my Aunt’ll come around to the beauty of the ballet.”

“I thought you hated ballet? Now it’s beautiful?”

His thumb strokes over her knuckles, his voice dropping to quietly reply, “I’m a recent convert. You’re a beautiful reason to try again.”

“You must really want those free tickets, huh?” She chuckles as he ducks his head, tucking his hand into his pocket like he’s forgotten they were long past by the typical time allowance of a friendly handshake. He lifts his cap to run fidgety fingers through his hair, replacing the ridiculous accessory before she can truly appreciate the heap of curls hidden beneath. “Our next show isn’t until next month, but I can leave you some in the box office.”

“Next month,” he echoes with a nod, “That sounds -”

They’re interrupted by the groan and slam of the heavy double doors to their side, a pretty little ballerina flying down the stairs and spotting Michelle in a second. Cindy glances between the pair and frowns, curling her arm around Michelle’s as she takes in Peter with a poorly disguised look of disgust.

“Hey, MJ. Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” she says, patting her friend’s hand in assurance. “We just bumped into each other while I was on my way out.”

“Hi,” Peter says sheepishly.

“Oh. I see.” Cindy twists to face her, partially blocking Peter from view as she turns her back to him. “I thought you were rushing across town for Gwen’s thing? Do you want me to come with?”

“It’s fine, Cindy, you really don’t have to -”

“Oh my God! What happened to your elbow?” Cindy grabs her arm to inspect the graze then levels a dirty look over her shoulder. “Richie can’t see this. He’ll be furious.”

“Cindy, please -”

“Let me help, MJ. My place is only around the corner; we’ll have you cleaned up and off to the gallery in no time.” Her friend raises her eyebrows in that way that means she won’t take no for an answer, and Michelle sighs loudly, glancing up at the last hints of the sun as it droops behind the skyline. If she doesn’t go now, she knows, then she’ll never make it to where she so desperately wanted to be all day.

“No need to head to yours first. Lets just go straight to the show.” Michelle side-steps Cindy to flash Peter a sad smile. “It was nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.” His shoulders slump, skateboard slipping down to his waist. “Sorry again, for the arm.”

But Cindy is already tugging her into the pedestrian traffic, and in the blink of an eye, hidden behind a passing businessman, Peter is gone.

Michelle heads into the subway with a despondency she hasn’t felt in a long time.

She can only hope to find those dark eyes once more, shining out from the audience as she pirouettes across the stage.

* * *

Michelle should have known better really. After all, this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“What the hell?!” she cries as she tumbles down to the grass with a huff.

“Shit, _shit_ , fuck! I’m so sorry!” The masked man panics as his hands stick her wool coat, then pauses to tilt his head in thought. “Woah. I just had the weirdest feeling of deja vu.”

Michelle blinks as she stares up at Spiderman. Yeah, she’s getting that feeling too.

It’s not like she doesn’t know who is behind the mask; everyone does, since he was outed by the Bugle after a nasty battle with some disgruntled ex-employees of Stark Industries. It’s one of those things that for the rest of your life you’ll remember; where were you when the news of Spiderman’s identity broke?

Times Square, is Michelle’s answer. The photo had appeared on the billboards and all she could think was, _I remembered the angle of his smile wrong._

Cindy had called her, screaming, remembering the exchange she had interrupted just a few weeks before, buzzing about Michelle’s apparent claim to fame. Cindy asked if Michelle had gotten his number, and Michelle had hung up with a hint of bitterness.

But it’s been a few years since they met outside the studio, and his life has imploded and twisted beyond recognition since, so she schools her expression into one of cool indifference as Spiderman tugs her back to her feet in the middle of Central Park.

Except when she finishes brushing the remains of autumn leaves from her thighs, she straightens up to see two mechanical eyes widening as they look her up and down.

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” Peter whispers. A blush stains her cheeks as he steps a little closer, feeling the heat of his gaze even through the mask.

“Michelle,” she reminds him as he says, “MJ.”

“You remember?” she asks, eyebrows raising with her surprise.

“You’re not exactly forgettable.” Peter glances around before tugging her by the sleeve of her coat to a more secluded patch behind a trio of trees. She follows willingly, intrigued by his confession. After another check for curious tourists, Peter reaches up and whips off the fabric previously covering his face, revealing the smile she’d once spent weeks dreaming of. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

She’s momentarily distracted by the tangled mess of curls on top of his head, fingers twitching at her side with the desire to sort them back into place.

Instead, she says, “When you said your job was complicated, I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting _this_ level of complication.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It wasn’t that complicated at the time, upon reflection.”

Michelle snorts. “You can say that again.”

“It wasn’t that complicated at -”

“Okay, okay, very funny.” She rolls her eyes but she’s laughing, and he grins as his gaze flickers down to her mouth. He sobers a little as she fidgets with the strap of her bag.

“I’m sorry I never made it to your show.”

“As excuses go, you had a pretty good one.” She tries not to think of the irrational tinge of disappointment she had felt when she’d seen the empty seats from the stage, his identity reveal having only been a few days prior. “I appreciated the flowers, though.”

It is Peter’s turn to blush, the flush travelling right up to the tips of his ears. “Is there any use in playing the innocent card?”

“You could try, but I already figured it out. You left the card blank - either I had a stalker or…”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” His jaw snaps shut and his eyes bulge. “Sorry. I don’t mean - I’m not a stalker. You just… You make me nervous. You probably never get nervous; being a dancer and all. Performing on that stage every night. Am I rambling? I think I’m dangerously close to rambling.”

“A little.” She laughs and glances up at him through her eyelashes, trying to subdue the thrill that keeps running through her every time he looks at her. “Actually, I get nervous all the time.”

The downward slope to his mouth is doubtful. “How about now?”

“Pretty on par with the moment before I step onto the stage,” she confesses, breath stuttering as she tries to wrap her head around the fact that, not only is she outright flirting with Peter, but that she’s doing it in the middle of Central Park while he’s dressed in the Spiderman suit.

“Cool. Awesome. Good to know.” He clicks his fingers and bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes skittering around the park behind her. She can hear the echo of a skateboard rolling down the closest footpath, and she wonders if he still gets to ride his; or is that just another thing that was ripped away from him from Beck and his motley crew?

It is probably this thought - the consideration of how much he’s sacrificed for what he does, how he’ll never know a normal life again, how they never got to do _this_ normally - that spurs her on to suggest:

“Maybe you can finally come and see a show. I’m a soloist now.”

Peter’s face relaxes, and he smiles when she chews on her bottom lip. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means access to better seats. The rest you’ll have to find out by turning up.”

“Okay.” He nods and holds out his hand, which she accepts with a firm shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, MJ.”

His hand doesn’t linger this time, something that makes her shoulders droop before he angles himself a little differently and whispers, “Tourist with a camera. Doesn’t matter what time of day, they’re always -”

He twitches as he glances up to the darkening sky, muttering something under his breath and turning back to her with panic in his eyes.

“Shit, I’m late. Uh… Do you have the time?”

“I do. But it’ll cost you.” When he frowns she continues, “Your number. And dinner.”

She almost chokes on her tongue. Where did _that_ come from?

Peter continues to stare at her like she’s just punched him in the gut.

She takes a breath for courage - she can’t get any more embarrassed, surely - before adding, “I’m free tomorrow night.”

Peter sighs. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Oh.” She wraps her coat around her a little tighter. “Sorry, I just -”

“Not that I’m not interested!” He curls his hands around her arms, like he’s trying to stop her walking away. “I’m so, very, _very_ interested. You have no idea. I just… Well, that’s the problem. I don’t think it would _just_ be dinner.”

She smirks at the euphemism but otherwise lets it slide, trying to focus on the importance of the matter. “You think we’ll become something… more?”

“God, I hope so.” He wipes a hand over his mouth, a stressed crease between his eyebrows. “But, MJ… I wasn’t kidding earlier. My life is complicated. You really want to get tangled up in all of that?”

She shrugs, stepping a little closer until her chest brushes against the spider emblem. 

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

***

He was right, oddly - in both ways; after a lengthy dinner and a midnight stroll, she drags him into her bedroom and gets to see another part of Peter that the world will never get to experience.

And a few years later, at the opening of her first show as a principal dancer, Peter is pride of place in the front row, clapping so ferociously she can’t hear anything else. She blows him a kiss in the middle of her bow, rolling her eyes as he jumps to catch it, and when he finds her backstage, he lifts her up in a way her dance partner has never managed, peppering her face with kisses as she laughs.

She doesn’t know where she’d be without that skateboard from long ago, but she can’t bring herself to care. Peter is her rock, her everything. No matter what has come their way, they’ve survived, hands clasped tight together; and for every future she envisions in the dark of the night before he returns to her, she knows they’ll face it as a pair.

Who’d have thought it; a ballerina and a vigilante against the world.

Sounds like the premise of a cheesy song, yet Michelle can’t bring herself to do anything but sing along.

**Author's Note:**

> @mjonesing on Tumblr as always


End file.
